


Welton, Class of '61

by esutonia



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 06:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12337437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esutonia/pseuds/esutonia
Summary: “Pretty, isn’t it?” Neil said, his eyes reflecting the stars. And Todd had to agree. Vermont, it seemed, was the state that America had forgotten, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it when the night sky was on full display and tucked away from prying eyes.“These are the same stars that the Greeks used to watch,” he breathed in awe. Todd turned his head, saw the gleam in Neil’s eye.“And they’ll be here long after we’re gone,” Todd replied.“I hope so.”A collection of vignettes and ficlets, of the past, present, and future.





	1. September, 1959

“Cover me,” Neil said, cracking the window open and clambering out. The frame squealed in protest as the wind leaked into their warm room.

“What are you _doing_?” Todd hissed, scandalized and maybe a little afraid for Neil’s safety. Neil ignored him. Todd watched his long, gangly legs disappear upward.

He poked his head back into the window’s view. The short strands of his hair swayed, upside-down. Though his profile was but a shadowed silhouette, Todd could hear the insouciant smile in his voice.

“Are you coming or not?” He asked.

If Neil were anyone else, Todd would have said no. But it was already fall, he was already a little bit enamored, already a little entranced and probably would have leapt from the sill if Neil had asked. So he obeyed, approaching the window with shy hesitation, accepting the arm offered his way. A surprising strength belied Neil’s thin arms as he hauled Todd to the roof. Neil huffed breathless laughter as Todd tripped over a shingle on the ascent, swearing under his breath. He gripped the cusp of the slope to regain his balance.

“Lie on your back,” Neil said, kicking back and flattening his own body along the plane of the mansard. Todd looked away, so as not to linger too long on the milky stripe of skin peeking under Neil’s school-issue sweater. The roof, beneath Todd’s back, felt surprisingly warm, likely from leaching the radiator’s heat.

They lay there, on opposite sides of the dormer, high enough to see both the rolling green and consuming sky. Nothing between them and the heavens but chilly air, and even that seemed to be disappearing from Todd’s lungs at an alarming rate.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Neil said. And Todd had to agree. Vermont, it seemed, was the state that America had forgotten, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it when the night stars are on full display and tucked away from prying eyes.

“These are the same stars that the Greeks used to watch,” he breathed in awe. Todd turned his head, saw the gleam in Neil’s eye.

“And they’ll be here long after we’re gone,” Todd replied.

“I hope so.”

A tide of words beat against Todd’s lips, but none of them said.


	2. October, 1957

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DEAD POETS SOCIETY  
> OCTOBER 12, 1959 - YEAR NO. 1, MEETING NO. 4  
>  _Transcribed by Todd Anderson_

DEAD POETS SOCIETY

OCTOBER 12, 1959 - YEAR NO. 1, MEETING NO. 4

_Transcribed by Todd Anderson_

 

Members in Attendance: Mr.’s Perry, Dalton, Overstreet, Meeks, Pitts, Cameron, Anderson.

Guests in Attendance: None.

 

Commencement: 10:24 PM.

 

PERRY: [ _Reads commencement speech (Omitted for brevity)._ ] I hereby call this meeting of the Dead Poets Society to order.

DALTON: Amen.

PERRY: [ _Dryly._ ] Thanks, Charlie. It was funny the first three times. Knox, do you have something that you’d like to share with us, to start the meeting?

OVERSTREET: I do believe so.

MEEKS: One of your own creations?

OVERSTREET: Eh, something like that.

DALTON: You’re killing us with the suspense, Knoxious.

OVERSTREET: [ _Sarcastically._ ] Ha, ha. Anyway….This poem is entitled: “White Kite”, written by yours truly.

 

> Its sight of me was coincidence,  
>  As I caught it in the seas of wind.  
>  The kite, it swirled above my eye,  
>  Twisting, dipping, swirling by.  
>  The string that it was tethered from  
>  Was nearly whitened in the sun.  
>  Enraptured with white purity,  
>  I yearned to bring it down to me.  
>  My hand stretched outward, up, to grasp  
>  Alas, I felt its tail slip past.  
>  I watched it flutter, like a sail,  
>  Until it caught a higher gale  
>  And spiraled upward, to the clouds  
>  Disappearing with a ghostly bow.  
>  With it too went the joy in me  
>  From a place I’d never known it’d been.

PERRY: Thank you, Knox. Thoughts?

CAMERON: Three guesses as to what the “white kite” is, anyone?

PERRY: It was a really nice poem, Knox. Any poets you took inspiration from?

OVERSTREET: Byron and Shakespeare. Keating helped revise it a little, too.

PITTS: Didn’t know you could rhyme so well!

OVERSTREET: Thanks, Ger.

MEEKS: Yeah, awesome work. You aren’t technically a “dead” poet, but there’s always room for exceptions, eh?

DALTON: Knox’s gotta live for his lady! [ _Misc. whistling and hooting._ ]

PERRY: Alright, alright. Who wants to go next?

PITTS: Didn’t you say you had an interesting one, Steve?

CAMERON: Oh, let’s hear it.

PERRY: You okay with that, Steven?

MEEKS: Sure, why not. [ _Stands_.] I will be reading the poem “When You Are Old”, by William Butler Yeats.

 

> When you are old and grey and full of sleep,  
>  And nodding by the fire, take down this book,  
>  And slowly read, and dream of the soft look  
>  Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;  
>    
>  How many loved your moments of glad grace,  
>  And loved your beauty with love false or true,  
>  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,  
>  And loved the sorrows of your changing face;  
>    
>  And bending down beside the glowing bars,  
>  Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled  
>  And paced upon the mountains overhead  
>  And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

PITTS: It’s so romantic, Meeks.

CAMERON: Yeah, never really pegged you for the type. I mean, it’s a good poem, but—you know—it’s different. From what I’d expect.

DALTON: We live to defy expectations, Dickie. Better get used to it!

CAMERON: Don’t call me “Dickie”.

DALTON: Hmm, I think I will. But you can call me “Charles” if it’ll make you feel better.

CAMERON: Screw you, _Charles_.

PERRY: Alright, break it up. Don’t make me cut this meeting short.

DALTON: Yes, mother. Dick, you live...for now.

PERRY: [ _Glares at him_.]

OVERSTREET: Hey Neil, can you read a... _scary_ poem? It’s high time we got some ghost stories around here.

PERRY: I _could_ , but I could always save them for some other night. I don’t want to monopolize the meeting.

DALTON: Go for it, Neil.

PERRY: Some other time I’ll read one, okay?

MEEKS: Aw, come on. Why not?

OVERSTREET: Please?

ANDERSON: Please read for us, Neil.

PERRY: Oh-okay. Just...let me get my book.

DALTON: [ _Whispering_ ] Good job, Todd.

PERRY: Uh—alright. How’s this— _The Abandoned Farm_ , by William Zorach.

 

> In this big house the dead walk. They are always cold.  
>  And I am a young spirit that has strayed among the dead.
> 
> Outside the hills are wonderful. They are red with the sun.
> 
> I came here to seek the spirit of the mountains; and now my soul is slipping from me, for I find only the dead.
> 
> I look out of the window upon the great mountains. They are covered with snow. I feel the wind and the hot sun on the snow. Strange trees climb the mountains, like people seeking the heights. And my heart bursts, for among the mountains there are only the dead.
> 
> The dead walk in the big house. They are always cold.  
>  And I am a young spirit that is lost among the dead.

ANDERSON: It’s...

PERRY: Morbid? Yeah, I know.

PITTS: Isn’t that the point of a ghost story, though?

DALTON: Pittsie’s right—and for the record [ _Nods at_ ~~_me_~~ _ANDERSON_.]—morbid’s cool. For Christ’s sake, we’re the Dead Poets, not the Alive-and-Happy Poets.

CAMERON: I still think “Dead Poets Society” is a bit pretentious.

MEEKS, PITTS: Shove it, Dick.

CAMERON: What? It’s my opinion.

OVERSTREET: Then what d’you suggest for a new name, then? ‘Cause if you wanna change the name, then you’ll have to at least propose—[ _Misc. background debate_.]

PERRY: [ _Whispering._ ] Did you like it, Todd?

ANDERSON: It’s pretty, but...why did you choose it?

PERRY: Well, it’s...I kind of—feel...that way, sometimes. Lost. Like I’m watching the world behind a sheet of glass. The poem resonated with me.

ANDERSON: You know...you can tell me anything, right? I won’t judge. I...don’t want to see you keeping everything bottled up. I….

PERRY: You…?

ANDERSON: Nevermind.

PERRY: No, tell me! What—

DALTON: [ _Plays a shrill saxophone note; everyone covers their ears and glares at him._ ] Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Sonnet 43.

 

> How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. [ _Plays short jazz solo._ ]  
>  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
>  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
>  For the ends of being and ideal grace. [ _Plays more notes._ ]  
>  I love thee to the level of every day’s  
>  Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. [ _Plays._ ]  
>  I love thee freely, as men strive for right. [ _Plays._ ]  
>  I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. [ _Plays._ ]  
>  I love thee with the passion put to use  
>  In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. [ _Plays._ ]  
>  I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
>  With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,  
>  Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,  
>  I shall but love thee better after death.
> 
> [ _Dramatic concluding solo; he stumbles on the last note, emitting a high squeal._ ]

ALL: [ _Collapse into hysterics._ ]

OVERSTREET: That’ll win them over for sure.

DALTON: Yeah, yeah. I’ll knock those ladies dead. [ _Plays “Shave and a Haircut”_.]

PERRY: For their sake, I hope you don’t break out the clarinet.

PITTS: Hey-o!

DALTON: You’d be the first in line, Neil!

MEEKS: In your dreams, he’s obviously—

PERRY: Anyway! Are there any other poems to share?

PITTS: It’s not quite ready yet. Next week I’ll read it.

CAMERON: Nope, I’ve got nothing.

OVERSTREET: What time is it?

ANDERSON: Almost one.

MEEKS: D’you think Keating will let us doze off in his class?

CAMERON: He’s pretty relaxed, but I don’t think even _he_ is  _that_ relaxed.

PITTS: Only one way to find out, though. Who’s willing?

DALTON: Well, if you wanna stay up a little longer, you won’t have a choice at all, will you?

MEEKS: Hmm, yeah.

PERRY: Let’s get going, then. We’ll save those poems for next time, everyone agree?

ALL: [ _Misc. agreement._ ]

PERRY: Okay. In that case, this meeting is officially—

ALL: Adjourned.

 

End: 12:55 AM.


	3. November, 1959

Though the girls came and went, no doubt intrigued and then bored with their charades, traces of them stayed. A certain female touch. Charlie never did return their lipstick; instead, he painted their faces red and rose with the war ink of intellectual rebellion, messages as obscure as his nonsensical new name.

Neil used it, once. Todd watched him swipe it carefully around the curve of his lower lip, touching fairy-light the peaks of his Cupid’s bow. His smile, jaunty and lascivious with a layer of pigment, stopped Todd’s heart.

And then, this immaculate paint job was marred as Neil surged forward and planted a red kiss to Knox’s unsuspecting cheek as he crooned in a girly imitation of Chris’ voice. They had howled with laughter, then, reveling in their childlike delinquency. Boys wearing makeup, none of them ashamed, for it was all just a game. Little trifles; but Todd was just a little bit in love, and it made all the difference in their tiny world.

Todd knew it was best kept a secret, this infantile longing. But still he imagined Neil, with rouge-red lips and powdered eyeshadow, what his long pale limbs would look like in a dress. His mind, running away because his mouth won’t. More beautiful than any woman, but even if he could, Todd wouldn’t admit it. He dreamed of Neil in drag, a wisp of gossamer tucked into the pages of his notebook.

And then the ripple of shame engulfs him and they disappear.


	4. December, 1959 (No. 1)

Some nights, he takes a familiar trip to a cave in the woods and hopes that Neil can hear him there.

The God of the Cave grins with a painted-on smile that no one returns. Todd thinks the others know that he still goes, but don’t join him out of respect. That, or the Society had ended with Neil. That thought makes him angry.

He kneels on the cold floor as moonlight illuminates plumes of breath and sees through the stars. In hushed tones he can whisper through the skylight for his words to vanish into the abyss, or sound a barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. (He spends more time doing the former.)

If he still believed in God, he would pray. Or perhaps he still does, but if there is a deity somewhere, it’s certainly not the one he was raised on. Their God casts his punishment upon creatures like Todd. Their God has a good reason for taking Neil away. Their God has a place for him to go.

Todd would spit in the face of their God; he would climb up to Heaven’s doorstep and demand his friend back in a quivering and all-too-hopeful voice. _What kind of God_ , he asks,  _would allow this to happen?_

How could Neil’s parents expect Him to care about their son, their lives, their anything, when they were nothing but ants crawling over His Divine Creation?

He tells Neil so, in the cave, while he’s holding on as long as he can before the cold sinks into his bones. He hopes he hears him.

Some nights, Todd thinks he does.


	5. December, 1959 (No. 2)

For Christmas, his parents gifted him a typewriter.

They watched him with curious eyes as he typed “SEIZE THE DAY”. When he smiled, gave a very-stable-and-completely-fine-alright “thanks”, they smiled back.

He pulled the paper out of the typewriter, folded it, and tucked it into _Leaves of Grass_.

He seized the rest of the day in bed, pretending to sleep for an hour, and wishing it forever.


	6. December, 1959 (No. 3)

Jeff gave him a long look.

“You can talk to me whenever you want,” he said.

“I know,” Todd replied.


	7. January, 1960 (No. 1)

They don’t expect invitations to the funeral, whenever it happens. But Todd doesn’t need to wait for a body in the ground to properly mourn.

It’s in the sober, subdued expressions on even the most sunny-faced boys; a long-suffering set to the chaplain’s eyes as he recites the psalm, as if they contained a pain rarely-remembered but chronic nonetheless. The hands of his friends, feather-light as if afraid he would break, and perhaps he really would. It would hardly matter.

A heavy mattress of snow sheltering frozen ground would only prolong the burial; they all knew this, having weathered tragedy in the New England winter before.

It hurt to think about Neil in one of those tombs, kept permanently cold, on his way to a second confinement six feet under. It hurt more than just the thought of him being gone. And it hurt every time Todd rolled over in bed to find Neil’s empty and was reminded of its occupant’s whereabouts. It hurt so much that Todd’s heart didn’t feel like a heart anymore; just an open sore that hissed with every breath. Something deep inside him felt broken, but he could not say what.


	8. January, 1960 (No. 2)

Braden fascinates Charlie; for, despite the attempts of the establishment to enforce uniformity on its pupils, he has never before seen such social disparity in one place. For once in his life, Charlie sees the delinquency of the rich and the poor alike, and the differences thereof. In status and birth, they are as far-flung as the stars, but in unison, they are miserable. Charlie now goes to school with the _petit-bourgeois_ , the upper-crust and the occasional charity case, and his parents would cry tears of blood if they knew. (He knows it, and thus he tolerates Braden out of sheer spite.)

He may be a hellion at heart, but Charlie’s learned the differences between new money and old. Has known, ever since he was six years old and his father’s golf caddy at their country club. The Daltons were old money, one of a dwindling breed of family. Their neighbors (if they could reasonably be called that—they each lived on forty-acre plots) were second-generation immigrants with not a penny to their name a mere century ago; his father’s own business partner was a schoolteacher’s son. Knox, Neil, even Gerard—sons whose families are rich, but not dynastic. He sees his family’s storied riches threatened by the _nouveau riche_ , but it’s hard to care about a family that never cared about him.

And he reads the differences between the cadets of Braden, even if his prodigal-son status keeps him from knowing what they mean. He was a delinquent at Welton, but even that title seems to lose its bite, because there’s a world of difference between the cigarettes that they used to sneak in the dormitories and the cutthroat smuggling business that he catches glimpses of in the bathrooms. It’s so casual, the way half-naked boys swap razor blades for dromes after morning showers. How sharp flicks of the calves with twisted-up towels become normal, and he becomes numb.

When he lies awake at night with a roommate whose surname he doesn’t recognize, he wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. His parents spent money to send him to a military academy, and for what? No matter how draconian the standards, nothing ever changes. They go on, defiantly snapping back all the rules that they’re given. When there’s a fire in his belly and a deep hunger for liberation, what can they do to stop him—stop _them_?

For all of his life, he has blindly followed the track of success that have led his predecessors. His slip-up at Welton, he knows, is what has derailed his parents’ plans, and Braden is the temporary detour, a bump in the road. He wants to detour, detour, detour until his parents run out of railroad ties to lay, because they are wrong, wrong, wrong, but he confesses that his parents are right in one thing—the less decadence they give him, the less he wants of it.

The boy he rooms with is a middle-class kid, his only claim to royalty being a long ancestry of military men. Charlie asks him what he wants to do; he says simply, “I want to lead an army.”

And Charlie nods, and he replies: “I just want to be free.”


	9. February, 1960

He dreams of Neil, all grown up, round glasses and white coat, the prodigal son. This is the Neil that haunts his dreams.

“An acute myocardial infarction,” he says, brisk and professional, dismissing the spot of cold festering in Todd’s chest that had nothing to do with the snow. “A history of heart disease?” He smiles vacantly, ticking off checkboxes on his clipboard. “Acid reflux?”

“No,” he murmurs. “No, no, no.”


End file.
